


sequel to Get Well Soon

by Teresa_C



Series: Post-Ahriman [4]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teresa_C/pseuds/Teresa_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does a hero do after he's saved the world?</p>
            </blockquote>





	sequel to Get Well Soon

DRAFT

Sequel to Get Well Soon (untitled)

Joe sat comfortably on a low wall, relishing his boulangerie sandwich. The day was beautiful, crisp and clear, and tourists and Parisians alike strolled the quay below him, enjoying the weather as much as Joe was.

Or, perhaps, not as much as Joe was. He hadn't yet lost his habit of viewing the world with new eyes, savoring all that could have been lost had Ahriman conquered Duncan MacLeod. He felt a certain pride of ownership in the unchanged existence surrounding him, for only Joe had stood by the millennial Champion in his darkness-defying struggle. Well, he corrected his thought sadly, only he had stood by the millennial Champion and lived. The world was not so unchanged, after all. Richie Ryan remained dead, even after the demon's defeat had lifted the threat of Armageddon from the world.

He sighed and crumpled the sandwich paper.

MacLeod's barge floated, unmoving, moored in its usual berth near Notre Dame, a dark spot on the colorful spring day. As Joe watched, the Champion himself appeared, dressed in the loose white tunic and trousers which were among the few items of apparel the man owned, these days. His inevitable dark sunglasses gave his face an inscrutable look which Duncan rarely abandoned anymore.

Joe chewed the last of his sandwich thoughtfully, considering his immortal assignment. The Duncan who had returned from his year-long retreat on holy ground was both harder and gentler than the man he had been. He had molded his body into such incredible condition that few of his old clothes even fit him. He had emptied his barge of most furniture, living a Spartan, even monastic existence. He rarely drank, he rarely smiled, he trained mercilessly, and he never carried his sword. He was, Joe was certain, miserable.

For once, Duncan looked directly at Joe, acknowledging his presence. He headed for the steps which would bring him up through the break in Joe's wall, to his level.

Joe levered himself to his feet and waited. Despite their bond of having survived the battle with Ahriman, Duncan had been distant. Joe thought he understood why Duncan needed space, and he was confident that it would pass.

"Joe," Duncan said, in greeting, but he looked out across the river.

"How are you, MacLeod?" Joe asked.

The dark glasses turned to face him. Duncan nodded. "Let's walk," he said.

Walking was more chore than recreation to Joe, but he was willing. Before he could say anything, however, Duncan changed his mind.

"Let's go to your place," he said, indicating Joe's parked Land Rover.

Good. Joe needed to do some cleaning before opening up this evening, anyway. He got behind the wheel and watched with some bemusement as Duncan MacLeod, immortal Champion, undying hero, buckled his seat belt.

He started the car. His passenger remained silent as Joe maneuvered through the lanes of traffic, but Joe was certain that he wanted to talk. "Funny,isn't it?" Joe said. "How the world doesn't look any different?"

MacLeod smiled slightly.

"I guess that was the idea, but, you know, it seems like things should improve or something."

"Maybe they will. They get a thousand years, now," Duncan said.

"You okay, MacLeod?"

"I don't know, Joe." He paused, watching the city roll by. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do now."

"Yeah, no ticker-tape parade."

"I don't need that. But ..."

"But what?"

"Do you know how impossible it is to explain? How unbelievable it is? Even Connor - he'll stand by me, but he doesn't believe me. Not even Connor."

Now Joe felt they had reached the heart of the matter. Duncan had killed his student. Methos had explained to Joe how unthinkable a crime that was to immortals. At best Duncan was a murderer, and at worst he was a psychopathic killer. None of Duncan's immortal friends had been in touch.

None of the recent ones, anyway. An astonishing parade of long out of touch immortal friends and one-time acquaintances, most of them women, had visited the Highlander. None of them had stayed, and Joe was sure they hadn't heard about MacLeod's student - icide. Connor MacLeod, whom Joe knew had been involved in keeping Duncan safe during the time Duncan was preparing to fight the demon, had been by, but urgent business had pulled him away.

"Mac," Joe was strangely reluctant to bring this up, but he knew he had to. "Connor may not be able to believe you."

"I guess not," Duncan said, looking out his side window.

"No, I mean, he _can't_."

Duncan turned those dark glasses on Joe, again. Joe pulled up in front of Le Blues Bar and double-parked. Access to the back of the bar was so narrow as to be almost unusable. It was different at the bar in Seacouver, where the city had been built with cars in mind. Joe found Paris beautiful and exciting, but difficult to do business in.

He opened the rear of the SUV and indicated the two crates of Australian wine in the back. "Would you get one of those?"

Duncan obliged. It was always handy to have an able-bodied immortal around, Joe reflected. Which made him think uneasily of Adam.

Adam. Methos. After Duncan's disappearance, Methos had behaved very oddly. He had actually challenged and defeated John Kirin in Las Vegas, claiming that Kirin had to die in order that Duncan be protected. Methos had tried to use a Watcher code called free cryptic to tell Joe something by email, later, but Joe couldn't comprehend the message. After that, silence, until Methos had shown up at Joe's, hacking into the Watcher database for information on Morgan Walker. Joe had been none too pleased to see him then, and they had not discussed Duncan other than that he was not in town. Joe had thought Methos wanted Duncan's help, when he had asked where Duncan was, but now he believed Methos had been still trying to avoid the "homicidal" Highlander. Because after Walker's defeat, Methos had begged Joe not to tell Duncan he was back in Paris. Joe had owed the immortal, by then, big-time, and so had acquiesced.

But he was bitterly uncomfortable with the deception, when he knew how abandoned Duncan felt.

Joe unlocked the door, Duncan standing beside him with a crate. "What do you mean?" Duncan asked.

"I mean," Joe said, opening the door and stepping inside, "isn't it strange that no one believes you? Not even me, until I met chuckles myself. Not even Methos, who has to have seen some pretty odd things in his long life."

"He said he'd never known of a real demon."

"Yeah, that's what he said. Let's get that other crate." By the time Joe had properly parked the car, Duncan had located a place for the crates in the storeroom. He obligingly stored them and then joined Joe at the bar.

"Now, since you and I both know they really do exist, isn't it funny that he never came across one? Not even across someone fairly credible who said they'd run into one? And what about Connor MacLeod? Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you both grow up in a time and place which took demons pretty seriously?"

"We've both learned better, Joe. You can't expect Connor to throw over an entire Enlightened Age."

Joe poured the immortal a glass of water. He had grown tired of offering the man a drink he almost always refused. "And you've learned better again. Why can't he believe you?" Joe sighed and poured himself a whiskey. "Look, Mac, there's more." He drank a swallow. "You can tell people, and they can't believe you. I can't even _tell_ anyone."

"Who would you tell?"

"Anyone. I _can't_. I can't even write it in the Chronicles. Believe me, I've tried."

"What stops you?" Duncan frowned.

"I don't know. My brain says type the words, and my hands won't do it. I open my mouth to talk about it, and nothing comes out."

"We're talking about it now."

"Yeah, but I still can't write it. I think maybe I can only talk about it with you, or maybe with someone who has also seen it, you know? It's really weird."

Still frowning, Duncan finished his water, and gestured at the whiskey bottle with his glass. Pleased Joe poured him some. "One thing I thought was strange," Duncan said slowly, "was the prophecies. They were supposed to warn the next Champion about what he had to do, but they were so damn vague. The language was all symbols and poetry, when I needed to _know_. And that hermit, I thought he was insane ..."

The hermit! Joe had learned from Connor that some unknown hermit immortal had actually been Duncan's first head, but Joe knew nothing more. How he'd love to get that story into the chronicles!

"What did the hermit say?"

"Nothing very useful. But, maybe he couldn't, Joe. Or maybe he was perfectly clear and I couldn't understand him. Have you tried telling about it any other way? Poetry, or ..."

"Song lyrics. Yeah, I have. I can only do it when the words are really symbolic and cryptic."

Cryptic. Joe stopped drying the glass in his hand, chasing a memory. The Field Watchers' operational code, free cryptic, was usually not a word-for-word code. It relied on creative embellishments around a few central images. Methos had tried to use it ...

"I wish I still had that email," Joe said, not meaning to speak aloud.

"What ..." Duncan broke off, and, inexplicably, stood beside his  
stool and gave Joe one serious look before fixing his gaze on the door. Joe  
knew the look.

Joe had seldom seen Duncan so on guard against an unknown immortal when in  
a more or less public place. Then he realized how many immortals Duncan believed  
loathed him, and he remembered that Duncan carried no sword.

Joe's heart beat faster. The bar wasn't very public at the moment. Why hadn't  
he relocked that door?!

The door opened and the man who stepped inside brought with him conflicting  
feelings in Joe's chest. Relief, anger, pleased recognition, resentment - all  
of them strong.

Methos paused in the doorway, looking directly at the Highlander. The moment  
stretched, and neither immortal moved. Joe was just considering calling a greeting  
to "Adam," when Methos stepped forward, watching Duncan the whole  
way.

"So here you are," MacLeod said, his tone surprisingly acidic. "Methos."

Methos stopped at the end of the bar. "Mac," he said, sounding guarded.  
"So, I hear congratulations are in order?"

Duncan said nothing. Joe's heart ached for him. He had to be hoping that here  
was one friend he could be reunited with.

"For, you know, saving the world?" Methos continued. He glanced at  
Joe. "That is all over, right?"

What cruel joke was this? Methos was incapable of believing in Ahriman. He  
was mocking what he must view as Duncan's delusion.

Duncan clearly saw that, too. His jaw clenched and unclenched. "Methos,  
take your jokes with you and leave."

Methos froze for a moment, then relaxed into his usual slouch and turned to  
Joe. "I think I'll have one for the road first. Joe?"

Joe's own anger burned. Humoring Duncan's "delusion" was like spitting  
on Richie's grave. "Yeah, sure," he told him. "We've got water."

Methos looked from one angry man to the other. "So, I don't get to hear  
what happened? How you defeated the demon?"

Duncan had had enough. He shoved his sunglasses back on his face, restoring  
his mask. "Talk to you later, Joe," he said, and strode toward the  
door.

"What did I say?" protested Methos.

"Mac, wait," Joe called. If MacLeod walked out, he lost any chance  
of restoring one remaining immortal friendship.

Duncan paused and turned toward Joe. "I don't need to take his sarcasm,"  
he said, gesturing at Methos. "I don't need any of this."

"You know he can't believe you any more than Connor can."

"It's all right, Joe," Methos said quietly. "This was just a  
bad idea."

Ignoring Methos, Duncan addressed Joe. "I know. But *he* has to be an  
asshole about it."

"Hello," Methos interjected. "I'm right here!"

Duncan whirled on him and stepped back into the bar area. "Now you are.  
God knows where you were when we could have used some help with Zoroastrian  
myths." He paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. It occurred  
to Joe that he hadn't seen Duncan angry since Ahriman's defeat. "Look,  
I don't expect you to believe in the demon ..." Duncan continued, in a  
weary voice.

"I believe in your demon, MacLeod," Methos said, looking at the floor.

"... I know what you saw me do."

"It paid me a visit."

Silence. Methos looked up, cautiously.

"What?" Duncan said.

"It wanted me to take your head. I ... I had to leave, Mac. I'm sorry.  
I'm glad you won, all right? Congratulations and all that." Methos looked  
anywhere but at Duncan.

Joe stared at the man in shock, his thoughts whirling. When did this happen?

"Methos ..." Duncan started, then stopped.

Joe found his voice. "You ... you saw Ahriman." He could say that!  
He could actually say that!

Methos nodded. "Funny thing, then I couldn't tell anyone about it. I guess  
now I can."

Joe resisted a sudden urge to reach across and grab the man's arm. "Only  
us, buddy. I can't even write it in the Chronicles. I think you can only talk  
about it with someone who's had first hand experience."

Methos gave Joe his full attention, his eyes dark with interest. "But,  
I tried to tell you in Vegas and couldn't."

"Vegas?" Duncan asked. Neither man heeded him.

"I hadn't met him then," Joe said. Of course! It hit Joe like cold  
water: Methos had infuriated Joe by refusing to explain himself. Joe had assumed  
Methos was just being maddeningly secretive, but he *couldn't* have explained,  
any more than Joe could write about it, now.

"Las Vegas?" Duncan was a bit behind, but Joe couldn't spare the  
attention to explain it to him. For one moment out of time, he shared recollection  
and revelation with only Methos.

"Jesus, we probably could have talked about it any time during the Walker  
business!"

"Who's Walker?" asked Duncan.

"No shit," said Methos, shaking his head. He leaned on the bar, ignoring  
Duncan "I didn't bring it up because I knew I couldn't tell you and I knew  
it pissed you off. I did try to tell you, Joe."

Now Joe did reach out and pat Methos awkwardly on the forearm. "I know,  
buddy. I can see it now." Joe took a deep breath and looked past the relieved  
expression on Methos's face to the bewildered one on Duncan's.

"Gentlemen, sit down," Joe invited, expansively. "I'll bring  
the drinks."

Methos pulled back and returned to looking at the floor, the wall, the ceiling,  
anywhere but at Duncan. "No, I don't think so. I've said what I wanted  
to." With a nod to Joe, Methos slid past the Highlander, and was out the  
door.

What the hell? Just when they could talk about it - clear the air? What was  
the man's problem? Oh! Joe suddenly thought he knew. "Mac, go after him!"

"What's the use?" Duncan asked from behind his resigned mask.

"Mac, he saw the fucking demon! What did it do to him? Go!"

For a moment Joe feared that Duncan would let his own depression and self-loathing  
stop him from seeing what had to be done, but then some kind of understanding  
dawned on Duncan's face, and he turned and followed Methos out the door. Joe  
could see him through the bar's expansive windows as he looked up and down the  
street, then took two steps and stopped. He stilled and slumped as a familiar  
looking Volvo moved into traffic and drove past him.

Joe swore, sadly.

\--

Duncan stared after the Volvo, retreating into that place within himself where  
he was safe from hurt - alone and not caring what others thought of him. He  
had perfected this mind-set during his year of meditation, focusing on nothing  
but the vital battle to come, eliminating all extraneous concerns. But, with  
the battle over, this place in his mind grew less and less comfortable to him.

The Volvo did not fade from his view. Abruptly, he realized it had stopped  
just beyond him and was potentially blocking traffic on the narrow street, though  
no cars were in the lane just at the moment.

Duncan clenched his jaw and stood where he was, though he yearned to race to  
the car. Some remembered pride kept him where he was. Also, he dreaded to cross  
the distance between security and the awful explanations. The last time he had  
seen Methos had been on the darkest day of his life.

Then Joe's words came back to him. What had the demon done to Methos? It seemed  
Duncan's responsibilities had not ended with Ahriman's defeat.

Glancing up and down the street, Duncan walked up to the car and opened the  
passenger door. He got in and closed the door without looking at the driver.

Methos put the car in gear and started up.

Duncan stole glances at the other immortal, but Methos kept his eyes steadfastly  
on the traffic.

"Where are you going?" Duncan asked.

"I don't know," Methos answered, to Duncan's relief. "I'm driving  
until I end up somewhere."

"You're not living in your old place."

"No."

Methos did not, Duncan noticed, volunteer where he was living, nor suggest  
that they go there. Suspicion welled in him.

"How long have you been in town?"

"A while."

"And Joe knew."

"Don't blame Joe, Duncan."

Duncan turned his head away. So it was true. Methos had been avoiding him,  
too.

Duncan's throat tightened as he remembered Claudia de Jardin. He had gone to  
hear her concert in London, and she had fled from him, summoning Walter and  
her bodyguards. He prayed Joe didn't know about that. He was fairly certain  
Joe had not followed him to England.

But Methos said he'd met the demon. Why avoid Duncan, then? Richie, he supposed.

Duncan seriously considered asking Methos to stop the car so he could get out  
right there. This was too much. He closed his eyes, seeking equilibrium.

When he opened them again, the Volvo was threading down alleys toward the river.  
Toward the barge.

"You're still here, right?" Methos asked.

"Yeah, but ..." Duncan didn't want to be dropped off. "I still  
want to talk to you, and ... I don't have any chairs." It was an absurd  
situation.

Methos gave him an incredulous look. "Any beer?"

"No," Duncan admitted, deeply, truly regretting it. He waited for  
the inevitable blast of sarcasm. Methos probably welcomed a chance to end this  
non-conversation.

Methos clucked his tongue, but said, "Well, it's a fine day. We can sit  
on the deck."

Duncan felt absurdly grateful. He had failed as a host, and Methos would stay  
anyway. He had to look out the side window again as his vision blurred.

As they pulled onto the quay, Duncan saw Joe's Land Rover parked in front of  
the barge, Joe's grizzled head visible above the head rest. Methos gave Duncan  
a surprised look, and then parked beside him. The two immortals got out and  
walked around to Joe's open door. Joe smiled and switched off his stereo.

"Hi guys!" he said.

"How'd you know where we'd go?" Duncan asked.

Joe's smile broadened, knowingly.

Methos snorted. "Well, if you want in, you have to ante up," he said.

"I knew that, too," Joe replied, placidly, and, reaching down to  
the floor on the passenger side, drew forth a carton-carrier holding six bottles  
of beer.

\--

-tbc-

Joe was pleased he had thought to bring along a whole carton of beer, in addition  
to the six-pack. In the company of his friends, Mac allowed himself to drink,  
and Methos had lost none of his own beer-consuming capacity.

He also had brought a padded folding chair, since he had seen Mac's place,  
so, of the three of them, he was the only one seated in comfort. The two immortals  
perched and sprawled on deck as the day wore away and the shadows lengthened.  
A phone call to Mike insured that the bar was covered, and Joe couldn't remember  
when he had last felt so happy. They were all finally talking, and Joe had finally  
learned about the hermit who was MacLeod's first head.

D: Joe, do the Watchers know anything about that hermit's history?

J: We don't have a record of a guy living in the Highlands as a hermit. You  
didn't get a name?

D: What am I supposed to do now? Become a hermit and wait for the next Champion  
to find me and take my head? I haven't been gifted with any special knowledge  
of the future; how did that guy know I was going to show up?

J: Yeah, and, are the Champions always immortals? Two in a row seems pretty  
coincidental.

D: And, taking his head didn't give me his knowledge and experience. I still  
didn't even know about immortals, let alone about Ahriman. He gave his life  
to the next Champion, and for nothing.

M: Maybe not for nothing. You did win, after all.

D: You're being pretty quiet.

M: It's your puzzle, Duncan, not mine. But I agree. Your job now is to figure  
out how to get word to the next Champion.

D: I am not giving him my head.

M: That does seem unnecessarily extreme.

J: You know, why was that guy insane and living as a hermit? I mean, if he  
won. I bet he lost.

D: You think he lost and was still alive? But that would mean the last thousand  
years were a millennium of darkness.

J: And it's the thousand years before that we call the Dark Ages. Maybe the  
guy before him lost, too. So the hermit had to be sure you would win.

D: I just can't buy that, Joe. It may have been "dark" in Europe,  
but Arabia and China were thriving, to name only two. Methos? You're the only  
one with enough experience to judge. Have we had any worldwide dark ages lately?

M: I don't  I guess it depends on what you consider good and bad.

J: What do you mean?

M: Well, take civilization. *I* like it, but you could argue that it was the  
end of Eden.

J: Oh, come on.

D: I don't know, Joe. Cities weren't always good places to live. They used  
to be plague-ridden and unsanitary with open sewers and awful smells.

M: Not everywhere. I've lived in plenty of cities that didn't stink. And cities  
have always been the places where people had enough leisure to think. That can  
be good or bad, too, I suppose.

D: So are you saying civilization is good or evil?

M: I'm saying you can see it both ways. And maybe even I don't have sufficient  
perspective on the question. I love central heating and fast travel and the  
internet, but has the human condition improved or worsened in the last 1000  
years? How do you judge that? It's great for the developed countries, but more  
and more people live in the world, and more of them live in conditions of desperate  
squalor. But then, maybe that's not how you judge a "dark age."

J: Maybe it's an environmental "dark age." You know, pollution, ozone  
holes, stuff like that.

D: But we also have the technology to combat that.

J: Yeah, but we mostly don't do it.

D: Still, a thousand years ago they wouldn't have thought of that as evil.  
I *know* they wouldn't have 400 years ago. Pure evil should be obvious. We shouldn't  
have to ask "Is this bad?"

J: Well, what did Ahriman say? Did he give us any clues?

D: We know what Ahriman said to us, Methos. What did he say to you?

M: We didn't have much of a chat. 'Kill the Champion for me.' 'No, thank you.'  
That's about how it went.

D: What did it offer you?

M: Oh, the usual. The Prize, knowledge of what it all means.

D: The Prize?

M: Well, invincibility anyway. Pretty obvious thing to try with an immortal,  
if you ask me.

D: Obvious because it should work. It would with most, I think.

M: Hmph. Despite my success, so far, at survival, MacLeod, being the last immortal  
around has never appealed. The knowledge thing was a better try.

J: It offered you two things?

M: Three is the traditional number when it comes to temptations, right? Why,  
what did it offer you?

J: Legs. Kind of obvious, again.

M: Jesus, Joe.

J: For maybe two minutes I had them back. I walked, I wiggled my toes. They  
even itched. Yeah, well. How would I explain it to anyone, you know? They don't  
do leg transplants.

M: The demon could have fixed that. It could have changed the past to where  
you never lost your legs.

J: Maybe. The price was too high. Nah, fuck him. He looked like James, too.  
Didn't make me feel particularly friendly toward him.

D: How do you know?

M: How do I know what?

D: That the demon could have changed Joe's past? What else did it offer you,  
Methos?

M: Well, Alexa.

D: Oh. Yeah, it showed me Tessa.

M: Showed you?

D: A vision of her. Sitting right down there, like she used to.

M: It gave me Alexa in the flesh. I could hold her and kiss her. She wondered  
what had happened and where she was. She seemed as real as we are. Was she an  
illusion, do you think?

D: I wish I could say yes, but ... Sophie Baines was brought back to life in  
the flesh, even though her corpse was still in the morgue. If you can make an  
exact copy of someone, down to the last molecule and memory ...

M: She was real.

J: And she died? Again?

M: And it was my fault, a point the demon was quick to make.

D: Methos, I'm sorry.

M: It's not your fault, either, MacLeod. Like Joe said, the price was too high.

D: Jesus, I didn't know. I didn't know it would go after my friends like that.  
We all ... it's like we all fought a war, separately.

M: There were casualties. Sophie Baines earned a Medal of Honor. There were  
four Watchers killed in Iran.

J: And Richie.

D: Richie?

J: He was a casualty, Mac. He fought the good fight. He died in the war.

D: By my hand, Joe.

J: In the best of all causes, Mac. His death would have been meaningless if  
you had lost. But you won.

D: I know what you're doing, Joe. Thanks, but don't bother.

M: There were other casualties. The residents in my condo.

D: What?

M: I hoped the demon wasn't serious when he told me he'd killed my neighbors,  
but he was.

J: The news said it was a gas leak. And you were gone. I thought maybe you'd  
had to split because you woke up in the morgue or something, but when they finally  
let me in your place it was a wreck. What happened?

M: I left as fast as I could, without knowing if he'd really done it. I didn't  
want to be used as a weapon. I didn't want to be responsible for any more ...  
Divide and conquer. And I let him divide.

J: Why wreck your place?

M: He was pretty pissed off when I said no. You stayed, Joe. You must have  
believed Mac.

J: No, I believed in him. It's not the same.

M: You're a better man than I am, Joe.

J: Was there ever any doubt?

D: You said no, Methos.

M: But then I ran.

D: You were afraid it would offer you something you couldn't refuse.

M: It already had, Duncan. I was afraid it would offer again.

D: It's all right, Methos. As someone very wise said to me, if you didn't want  
it so much, it wouldn't be a temptation.  


-tbc-

DRAFT


End file.
